John Lindqvist - Let The Right One In aka Let Me In

If he was nice.

When Eli had gone, Oskar sat down at the kitchen table again looking through the displayed newspaper articles. The headache was starting to lessen now that the impressions were taking on more of a pattern.

Eli had explained that the old man had become… infected. And worse. The infection was the only thing in him that was alive. His brain was dead, and the infection was controlling and directing him. Toward Eli.

Eli had told him, begged him not to do anything. Eli would leave this place tomorrow as soon as it got dark, and Oskar had of course asked why not leave tonight already?

Because… I can't.

Why not? I can help you.

Oskar, I can't. I'm too weak.

How can that be? You've just…

I just am.

And Oskar had realized that he was the reason that Eli was weak. All the blood that had run out in the hall. If the old guy got ahold of Eli it would be all Oskar's fault.

The clothes!

Oskar got up so violently the chair tipped over backward and fell to the floor.

The bag with Eli's bloodied clothes was still sitting in front of the couch, the shirt half hanging out. He pressed it deeper into the bag and the sleeve was like a damn sponge when he pressed it down, tied the bag, and… He stopped, looked at the hand that had pressed the shirt down.

The cut he had made in his palm had a crust that had broken up a little, revealing the wound underneath.

… the blood… he didn't want to mix it. … am I… infected now?

His legs carried him mechanically to the front door with the bag in his hand, listening for sounds outside. He didn't hear anyone and he ran up the stairs to the garbage chute, opened it. He pushed the bag in through the opening, held it fast for a moment, dangling in the dark.

A cold breeze whooshed through the chute, chilling his hand where he held it outstretched, squeezed around the plastic knot of the bag. The bag shone white against the black, slightly craggy walls of the duct. If he let go, the bag would not be sucked up. It would fall down. Gravity would pull it down. Into the big garbage sack.

In a few days the garbage truck would come and collect the sack. It came early in the morning. The orange, blinking lights would flash onto Oskar's ceiling at about the same time as he generally woke up and he would lie there in his bed and listen to the rumbling, masticating crunch as the garbage was crushed. Maybe he would get up and watch the men in their overalls who tossed the big bags with habitual ease, pressed the button. The jaws of the garbage truck closing and the men who then hopped into the truck and drove the short distance to the next building.

And it always gave him such a feeling of… warmth. That he was safe in his room. That things worked. Maybe there was also a longing. For those men, for the truck. To be allowed to sit in that dimly-lit coach, drive away…

Let go. I have to let go.

The hand was convulsively clenched around the bag. His arm was aching from having been held outstretched so long. The back of his hand was numb from the cold air. He let go.

There was a hissing sound as the bag slipped along the walls, a half

second of silence as it fell freely, and then a thud when it landed in the sack below.

I'll help you.

He looked at his hand again. The hand that helped. The hand that…

I'll kill someone. I'll go in and get the knife and then I'll go out and kill someone. Jonny. I'll slit his throat and gather up his blood and then I'll bring it home for Eli because what does it matter now that I'm infected and soon I will…

His legs wanted to crumple up under him and he had to lean on the edge of the garbage chute not to fall over. He had thought it. For real. This wasn't like the game with the tree. He had… for a moment… really thought about doing it.

Warm. He was warm, like he had a fever. His body ached and he wanted to go lie down. Now.

I'm infected. I'm going to become a… vampire.

He forced his legs to move back down the stairs while he steadied himself with one hand-

the uninfected one

– on the railing. He managed to let himself back into the apartment, went into his room, lay down on his bed, and stared at the wallpaper. The forest. Quickly one of his figures appeared, looked him in the eyes. The little gnome. He stroked his finger over it while a completely ridiculous little thought appeared:

Tomorrow I have to go to school.

And there was a worksheet he hadn't filled out yet. Africa. He should get up now, sit down at his desk, light the lamp, and start to look up places in the geography book. Find meaningless names and write them down on the blank lines.

That was what he ought to do. He softly stroked the gnome's little cap. Then he tapped on the wall.

E.L.I.

No answer. Was probably out-

doing what we do.

He pulled the covers over his head. A fever-like chill coursed through his body. He tried to imagine it. How it would be. To live forever. Feared, hated. No. Eli wouldn't hate him. If they were… together…

He tried to imagine it; he spun out a fantasy about it. After a while the front door was unlocked. His mom was home.

Pillows of fat.

Tommy stared blankly at the picture in front of him. The girl was pressing her breasts together with her hands so they stood out like two balloons, had pursed her mouth into a pout. It looked sick. He had thought he was going to jack off, but there must be something wrong with his brain, because he thought the girl looked like a freak.

He folded the magazine up with unnatural slowness, tucked it back in under the sofa cushions. Every little movement directed by conscious thought. Wasted. He was utterly wasted with glue fumes. And that was good. No world. Only the room he was in, and outside that… a billowing desert.

Staffan.

He tried to think about Staffan. Couldn't. Didn't get ahold of him. Only saw that cardboard cutout of the policeman up at the post office. Lifesize. To scare off any would-be robbers.

Should we rob the post office?

Man, you must be crazy! Can't you see the cardboard policeman is there?

Tommy giggled when the cardboard policeman's face took on Staffan's features. Assigned as punishment. To guard the post office. There was something written on the cutout as well, what was it?

Crime doesn't pay. No. The police are watching you. No. What the hell was it? Watch out! I'm a champion pistol-shooter!

Tommy laughed. Laughed more. Laughed until he shook and thought the naked bulb in the ceiling was swinging to and fro in time with his laughter. Giggled at it. Watch out! The cardboard policeman! With his cardboard gun! And his cardboard head!

There was a knock inside his head. Someone wanted to come into the post office.

The cardboard policeman pricks up his ears. There are two hundred cardboards at the post office. Undo the safety. Bang-bang.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Bang.

… Staffan… Mom, shit…

Tommy stiffened. Tried to think. Couldn't. Just a ragged cloud in his head. Then he calmed down. Maybe it was Robban or Lasse. It could be Staffan. And he was made of cardboard.

Penis-dummy, cardboard-mummy.

Tommy cleared his throat, said thickly: "Who is it?" It s me.

He recognized the voice, couldn't place it. Not Staffan, at any rate. Not paper-Papa.

Barba-papa. Stop it.

"Who are you, then?"

"Can you open?"

"The post office is closed for the day. Come back in five years."

"I have money."